Tag Archives: Birthday

Murphy Monday: Four Years Old!

On May 5th, Murphy will be four years old!

Daisy and I went to see him on Friday.  He’s so huge I can barely get a grip on all that giagantic-ness.  I’m guessing he’s over 16hh.  He’s still the same sweet, easy going boy that plopped out on Day One.

One hour...

One hour…

1 week

One week

One Year

One Year

Murphy is THREE!

Two Years

Murphy is THREE

Four years!

We love you Daisy and Murphy!  Happy third birthday together.

We love you Daisy and Murphy!  (He’s huge. Daisy is 5’11”)

Happy fourth birthday together!

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Carrot Cake For Everyone!

Happy Birthday, Hudson!

Best. Carrot. Cake. EVer.

I want to grow frosting carrots. My kind of vegetable. You can make this carrot cake! Instructions and drool-worthy blog, here.

Hudson got a cell phone for his birthday.  After our Colic Camping episode, I wanted him to be able to get ahold of me immediately.  This is how parents end up giving iPhones to a kindergartener, isn’t it?

He hasn’t come to terms with the fact he already HAS his present.

STAFF?!?

spirit killer

 

Hudson on the road

Happy 25th birthday, Hudson.

love,

Jane

How My Elbow Became Famous, and Why We Need to Review Appropriate Birthday Presents

Part One: in which I have a birthday near the end of October, and get many appropriate presents, and one randomly inappropriate present that everyone else wants…really really badly.

My birthday started well.

The two candles: my mom didn’t have a fire extinguisher handy to deal with the potential blow back of my real age. (Or my mom likes to remind me I’m really only two, and could grow up?)

She knew I was coming, so she baked a cake.  Thanks Mom!

Chocolate. FROSTING. Does my mom know me, or what?!? And yes, there is a cloth hamburger on her table. It’s Jane’s MOM. Who else would decorate with cloth hamburgers?

Shaun gave me pajamas. With ZEBRA socks. Pink, fuzzy, happy, zebra socks.

I could live my entire life in pajamas. I think most of the world’s problems could be solved by making the Leaders of The Free World wear bunny slippers and Spiderman PJ’s to work.

And…the birthday gift that keeps on giving.  Hudson. Thank you Shaun, Micah, and Lee Lee!

What? I'm up here. Please. Go on. Rub my knee some more.

What? I’m up here. Please. Go on. Rub my knee some more. Where ARE you going with this, BTW…?

Bella, Daisy, and Alice got together and made me cry. On purpose. And I liked it.

Made from hair stealthily swiped from Hudson’s tail. So I could have him with me always. Don’t tell Shaun? But right up there with my wedding ring. *sniff*  Exquisite work, Tail Spin!

My favorite things in the world. Frosting, Family, Friends, Familiars*.

Being loved is the best gift of all.

*Familiars: couldn’t think of a positive word for equines that started with an F. The only thing that came to mind rhymed with “trucking”. Hudson developed a terrible case of mud-less scratches that need a lot of staring, poking, soaking, drying, patting and rubbing of 6 different creams in a weekly rotation. Horses. I’m avoiding the word…”truck”.

My body decided to jump into the gift giving Fray. (Hey look, I’m on an F roll.)

Ta Da! Below is  how Jane’s body sings “Happy Birthday to youuuuu.”

Yep. A third elbow. Just what I always wanted.

A third elbow. Just what I always wanted.

Nice.

I couldn’t seem to make myself worry. Who the heck has ever heard of Elbow Cancer? Shaun Googled the crap out of it, and tried not to look totally freaked out in front of me. I pretended not to notice the stealthy Googling and I Am Not Freaked Out – No Really, look on her face.

Luckily, I didn’t have to pretend not to care about the lump.

It’s just a lump.  I can live with a lump. Heck, Hudson lives with a lump.

Lump Schlump.

Still Giant. Still not hurting him. Still Freaking people out all over the world.

Still Giant. Still not hurting him. Still Freaking people out all over the world.

Would a third elbow help me be lighter on the reins?

Would a third elbow help me be lighter on the reins?

Fine. Fine. I promised Shaun I’d go to the doctor.  Then I promised the trainer, who poked the lump, said “I think it’s bigger than last week…?”.  Then I promised Daisy, Bella, Carlos, and Alice I’d go to the doctor. Promising to take care of it bought me a lot of time to ignore it completely.

Denial. My favorite method of self-care.

Doctor said, “Huh”, looked me in the eyes, then back down at my arm, “only you.” She pushed on the lump. “Does it hurt?”

Oh goody, I can rack up another bullet point in Jane’s “Let’s Not Slice Our Body Open” PowerPoint presentation:

“Nope. Doesn’t hurt at all”, I say, “It’s fine”.

Doctor looks at me.  “Lumps of unknown origin are NOT fine, Jane. Probably a cyst from synovial fluid.  You sure you didn’t bump your elbow?” Pause. “Hard?”

Denial is so….passive. Suddenly remembering a blow hard enough to cause a lump the size of a golf ball is not passive.  I’d be actively lying. Even if I substitute the harsher word “lie” for the innocuous sounding word “prevaricate”. Hmm…could I work with actively prevaricating…?

Maybe my mom was right: two birthday candles sort of sum up my emotional age. Don’t look at it, don’t touch it! It’s not THERE! It’s nothing!

Damn. Have to get it checked out.

I didn’t bother to take Shaun with me for the ultrasound.  They’re not allowed to tell you results. The plan: I’d go, stay happily in denial, and pick up a latte on my way home.

Um. Yeah. About that. How many of us can read the ultrasound while our vet is still running the wand over our horse? Right. I knew instantly it wasn’t fluid.  Solid tissue. I watched her do density scans.

The tech nervously leaves to: “check with the doctor that the films are clear and shot from the correct angles and stuff.” Even I know that’s technician-speak for: “Uh Oh. Must find DOCTOR.”

Denial is great.  I shrug. Decide my body couldn’t handle all the frosting I was ingesting (whoops…my bad) so it helpfully created a nice frosting lump behind my elbow, where it wouldn’t be noticeable.

Heyyyyyy…It’s a buttercream tumor! On my funny bone! I can’t wait to tell everyone: it will be a piece of cake to remove.  It has to go, because it’s on my Last Nerve!  HA HA HA HA HA HA ha ha ha ha ha….um…niggle niggleha?

I go back to my detective novel.

Dr. Radiologist comes in. “Can I…see…it?”, she asks tentatively, sounding nothing like the professional doctor she obviously is.

Oddly, she has the voice of a woman in Tiffany’s asking the saleslady if she could just look at a gazillion carat diamond ring.

“Uh. Sure”, I say, and poke my elbow into the air.

“Can I…touch it…?” she asks, in – I swear – the reverent voice of a woman asking to TRY THE RING ON.

“Sure?”, I say.  She’s not going to try to take it, um, out of the box, is she?

I hear excited whispering outside the exam room door. “No it’s in there.  Just wait. Maybe we can see it!! Shhhhhh!!! Did anyone tell Meghan…?”

  This is what a 69.42 carat diamond looks like. .

You’d think carbon based life forms – such as ourselves – would be able to produce a sparkly carbon based hunk of rock. You’d never have to worry again that your insurance won’t cover medical costs for retrieval. Hospitals would be RICH. And people with gallstones…? Kazillionaires.

My unusual lump started an epic odyssey of specialist surgeon visits, MRI’s, blood tests, and immediate surgery scheduling.  Not a fatty tumor.  Apparently a tumor so rare, most specialists never see it in their life time.

I don’t do immediate.  I’m not good with ch*nge. I tried hard not to panic when the first surgeon said, “Let’s see, today is Friday…Sue call St. Mary’s and see if we can book an OR for Monday.”

MONDAY? As in Saturday, Sunday, MONDAY??? This whole time I’d been thinking…January…was doable.

I needn’t have stressed over immediate. The medical community was jazzed. I felt like I was…correction…I felt like my tumor was about to hit the talk show circuit, and possibly end up with its own Mercedes. I waited in endless green rooms, doing coffee shots and waiting  for the signal it was time to thrust my elbow in the air in front of an all white-coated crowd. Wait for the collective gasp.  Oooohing and Ahhhing.  If I could have sent my elbow to the appointments without me, I would have. It started begging me for celebrity sunglasses, hip-hop style.

I was lucky.  The best nerve trauma surgeon in the country (referred to in medical circles simply as: The God) swept in and said to the other bickering neurosurgeons, “Neener neener, sorry about your luck underlings, it’s MINE.”

I raised my hand.  “Yes?”, he said.

“Uh. Can I come too?”, I said.

I was feeling a little unclear on the concept: does the famous tumor go in, and the (thankfully) unimportant mother of the tumor wait outside?

“Sure”, he said, and smiled a killer Hollywood surgeon-smile, complete with tooth twinkle.

Tooth twinkles: a sure sign that things are not what they seem.

…to be continued.

(Spoiler alert: I’m fine. We don’t need to worry.)

Hudson Explains His Very Good Reason (which sounds very Winnie-the-Pooh-ish)

Dear Smart People Who Are Not Jane,

There’s a reason I mess with Jane. Via messing with Phil, who, face it, is über FUN to mess with. I mean, c’mon.  If you were stuck hanging out with a Phil, could you resist turning your head casually, and saying a bored: “Booga booga”?

Or “I think there’s a skunk in the bottom of your hay…”?

Of course I’m scaring him when Jane isn’t around.  Frankly, setting him off over nothing is just too much fun to resist.

My latest episode of admittedly over-the-top phreaking out of Phil was precipitated by little pointy party hats.  Complete with chin elastic.

I had a birthday.

Oh.
Yay.

The one day of the year I get to look completely stupid. I’m the handsome horse on the left. The messy human staring into the sun (she’s not very bright) is Jane.  The gorgeous babe rocking the stupid pointy hat (Chicks can do this.  I don’t get it either.) is Ginger, with her tidy and photogenic human, Laurie.

Please take notes, Jane. A little make-up goes a long way.  Tidy up, please.

Goody. I've always wanted a paper cone on my head. Party. Hearty.

Goody. I’ve always wanted a paper cone on my head.

Thank you for listening.  Can any of you help Jane develop some horse savvy?  For instance: We Do Not Put Party Hats On Horses Who Are Not Phil.

nudge,

Hudson

p.s. There’s one more letter, for Jane.

Dear Jane,

Ginger and I have proven to be excellent sports. Please destroy the Winnie-the-Pooh hats.

Now.

Disney's adaptation of Stephen Slesinger, Inc....

Seriously? You thought I’d tolerate an infantile, spelling-impaired, honey-obsessed, bear on my head?(Photo credit: Wikipedia, Copyright:Disney)

I’m enjoying the daily warming massage therapy on my knee, which frankly, I don’t think looks all that bad? Why all the fuss? It doesn’t hurt. At all. If it did, I would have torn you to shreds already. And the Not-Galloping is making me grumpy, FYI.  This is not good for your future.

The ice water massage boot is interesting. For about three seconds. You thought I was yawning for 20 minutes because it felt good?  I was bored OUT OF MY MIND. (But please, no singing.) You could fill those 20 minutes by peeling me some baby carrots, emperor style.

I need to know.  Does ultra-sound treatment on that knee involve more Jane-Singing?  I guarantee you that knee, should you sing, will explode. But not before I take a chunk out of your shoulder.

The real reason for my letter: I don’t understand this birthday obsession you humans have. I was pleasantly surprised that you considered what I, not you, would like for my birthday.

  1. I do not want to be clean.  Clean is bad.  Thank you for letting me roll and roll and roll.
  2. I do love a clean water trough.  Nice of you to scrub it out.
  3. Of course I love carrots.  And food. Thank you for happily providing both.

You are not off the hook for the party hat photo.  Please consider my recent flare-up of Phil Phreaking Out a warning shot across your bow. If you do not cease, I cannot be held responsible for my actions.

(I can make him afraid of cookies.  Do not tempt me.)

Nudge,

Hudson

Murphy Monday: Cinco De Murphy!

Murphy was born on Cinco de Mayo.

He turned TWO years old yesterday.

As part of his growing up and changing needs, he moved to a new facility, where he met a dumbfoundingly handsome horse, with whom he bonded utterly.

We have to admit, this new horse is extremely handsome. And very personable. Daisy could barely tear him away.

Murphy Mirror 2  years old

He’s huge. I think Daisy is 5′ 11″ tall. Murphy hangs his head over her shoulder.

Happy Birthday, Murphy!

Still the same curious boy who said, “Hey. It’s dark in here.”

We love you…

Murphy in tail

Happy Birthday Barbie!

This is Daisy’s mare, (and my niece) Barbie,  hopefully in order of age progression. She turned 8 years old on Sunday.

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Barbie is Murphy’s mom, for those just joining us.  She needed to be retired early, but shines on: she is a wonderful mother.  This is a mare you’d want to have a foal by.  She was very strict with Murphy, saving humans a lot of work, which is probably partly why his manners have remained decent into the terrible two’s.

She’s one of my favorite horses of all time.  I just love this horse. Barbie is an eye magnet.  You can’t help but want to watch her.  (Stare, produce cookies, groom, hug, massage, dream….)

Happy Birthday Barbie!